


Lost It To Trying

by okoomi



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Gore, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-01 09:29:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16282043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okoomi/pseuds/okoomi
Summary: Gavin wishes he had a fucking plan. The only things that ground him these days are his anger and his gun. The world’s out to get you, Reed. It’s just you against the world.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags for content warnings.

Gavin is tired. Fighting tooth and nail for the barest shred of satisfaction has brought him here, in his bed, staring at his own gun. Fuck past him for knowing this was gonna happen, for leaving it on the opposite side of the room, for being so fucking fucked. The stupid piece of shit motherfucker.

His heart rails against the cage of his chest and Gavin thinks he’s gonna throw up. His fingers flex and in his head he can feel its familiar weight and he’s pointing it at some druggie too far gone to realize they’re assaulting a police officer. He pulls the trigger, because he can, but when he flips the body over, it has his face and he almost looks at peace amongst the red.

He balls his hand into a fist and beats his head as hard as he can. He only gets a few shots in before the frantic energy rushing up and down his skin boils over and all he can do is let his hand fall and try to ride out the feeling.

It takes a long time.

A million years later, Gavin wakes up tangled in sweaty sheets. His head is foggy and for a few blissful moments he forgets he’s Detective Asshole Gavin Reed. It comes back (it always comes back) and he gets dressed and goes to work.

Anderson and his plastic son are in early today. At least, for Anderson it’s early. His android has been on his ass bugging him to eat healthy, drink tea, get up early, be better. There’s a hollow ache in Gavin’s chest he doesn’t care to poke at and goes straight for the coffee machine instead. 

A bunch of rookies are milling around the break room, excitedly chatting about their first week on the beat, and Gavin has half a mind to pull his gun on them. They’ll be staring down a barrel eventually and maybe having someone they’re supposed to trust behind the trigger will shut them up. Better him than some icer that won’t hesitate to put a bullet between the eyes if it’ll get them their next fix. 

Gavin wouldn’t shoot. Honest.

(But he did, last night.)

One of the rookies sees him and they scatter, trying to look busy even as they whisper amongst each other. 

The old coffee machine is broken, Connor’s neat handwriting indicating they’d already ordered a new energy-efficient model. Gavin stares at the sticky note in all its glaring yellow and the hollow ache morphs into a familiar burning pit in his stomach. It still eats away at him, but the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t, so he takes the energy and marches to his desk. He bumps into a rookie’s shoulder for good measure, putting enough force to knock the folder from her hand.

“Watch where you’re going, kid,” he sneers over his back as he walks past. The stares are easier to swallow when he does this shit on purpose. The soft chatter of the precinct starts back up by the time he reaches his pristine desk.

He’s logging on when a shadow looms over him.

“I thought I smelled something bad when I walked in,” he leans back in his chair to look up at Anderson. Gavin feels small but he straightens his shoulders anyway, a caustic smile on his lips as he opens up his posture. Not scared. Nothing to hide. Fight me.

Anderson’s eyes are as sharp as Gavin’s pocket knives. “Fowler wants to talk to us.”

Gavin can’t help but grit his teeth. “Fine.”

He follows Anderson through the glass door of the Captain’s office where Fowler is waiting for them. He’s surprised Connor isn’t shadowing Anderson but he knows that the android will get all the juicy deets later. Probably share it with Android Jesus and Co. as payment for greasing the wheels to get a job at the precinct. Fucker.

“Are you listening to me?”

Gavin nods but he hasn’t been paying attention. It’ll be the same shit as always - psych eval, slap on the wrist, maybe paid leave. He knows full well the consequences of his actions, he doesn’t need Fowler to add onto the pile.

“You need someone watching your back, Gavin, and no one in the precinct is willing to partner with you,” Fowler frowns. “Not that you would willingly partner with anyone. So here’s the deal: partner up with the new RK or turn in your badge.”

The new RK? He spares a glance at Anderson, who seems a bit pale as well.

Fowler stares him down with a cutting focus that leaves no room for argument. “Take the day to decide. Go home, you look like shit.”

He stomps out of the office without a word. What fucking difference would it make? He’ll just ditch the RK the first opportunity he gets. No tin can is worth his breath.

Connor catches his sleeve as he passes, his LED a flickering yellow. Gavin growls as he yanks himself out of the android’s grip, knowing full well he only succeeded because Connor let him go.

“What the fuck do you want?”

Connor pauses for a beat, perfect hesitance in his artificial face. “I understand that these last few months have been testing your patience, Detective Reed. I’d like to say that your efforts have not gone unappreciated and that I’m here if you need to talk,” Connor raises his eyebrows and leans in like he’s sharing a secret. “Hank says I’m a good listener, so I may be able to help.”

He’s punching the stupid fucking bucket of bolts before the thought even registers in his head. 

Connor redirects each blow as quickly as Gavin can dish them out. The android seems disappointed and that makes him see red. 

“The fuck is wrong with you, huh?” he pants heavily, trying to ignore the attention he’s attracted. “You’re just a fucking doll, parroting back what you think your superiors wanna hear. Good listener?” The bark of laughter that comes out of his mouth doesn’t sound like him. “The truth is that nothing you say is real. You’re pretending. Everyone knows it. Hank knows it. You know it.” 

He lets the words sink in like knives as Connor’s LED cycles red. It’s almost enough to make him feel better. He feels worse.

Gavin spits in Connor’s face to get the bitter taste out of his mouth and then walks past the android to the exit, head high. He matches the gaze of everyone who dares to meet his eyes. He’s fire and lightning and not to be fucked with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more a vent fic than an actual story. I’ve been having a hard time and channeling it through Gavin helps.
> 
> That being said, feel free to leave feedback. I’m always interested in what people have to say.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get intense in this chapter. Please mind the tags for your own sake.

Fuck home. He needs a drink. So he stops by Jimmy’s.

Jimmy looks tired. Gavin doesn’t care, just orders his usual and a plate of cheesy fries because why the fuck not? 

His stomach growls as he waits, the soft jazz starting to soothe his frayed nerves. The bar is mostly empty except for a couple of day-drinkers spread as far away as possible from one another. Apparently misery doesn’t love company.

He’s waiting and waiting and waiting and Jimmy finally comes back, disgustingly delicious fries in tow. Gavin forks it down like it’s a gift from God, because it is, and sucks the leftover salt and grease off his fingers when he’s done.

“Hey Jimmy, can I get a refill?”

“Hey Tracy, can I get the money you owe me for your last two?”

Tracy groans, resting her flushed cheek against the cool bar counter, her tacky earrings and necklaces clinking against the wood. “C’mon… Jimothy… we talked about this.”

“Jimmy ain’t short for Jimothy.”

“You always say that…” 

He orders more cheesy fries. Who needs therapy? 

He’s working on his second plate when the door to the bar opens. The frigid January wind rushes in, blowing some napkins onto the ground. It stays open. Tracy shudders from her spot on the counter, wrapping her arms around her bare shoulders. 

“Hey dumbass,” Gavin snaps. “Close the fucking door.”

The door closes. He goes back to his fries as soft footsteps approach him from behind. It puts him on edge and his fingers are itching for the gun on his belt. He sees a blue light reflecting off the brass bar taps in front of him. 

“Detective Reed.”

It’s Anderson’s pet, except the voice is too low, too flat. He ignores the android and slows down his chewing. Lets the fry turn to mush in his mouth. Takes a sip of his drink just so he can swish it between his teeth loudly. Tracy grimaces in disgust and peels herself off the counter to slink back to her booth. 

“You’re wasting my time.” 

He thinks about spitting in this prick’s face too but the android’s tone has him swallowing before he can make a decision. “Stellar deduction, Sherlock. You’re worth every penny, huh?”

Not-Connor sits down in the seat Tracy had vacated. Gavin scoffs at the rustle of leather and wonders if it’s plastic too. 

“That wasn’t an invitation for you to sit down.”

He can feel the android’s eyes boring into his temple. He’s too fucked to care, but Jimmy seems tense from behind the counter, and casually repositions himself where Gavin knows he keeps his hand gun within easy reach.

“This arrangement won’t be permanent,” the android says, straight to the point. “You will be fired eventually. I don’t care what you do in the meantime, just stay out of my way.”

Gavin finally turns to look at the plastic fuck and he hates what he sees. Hates the sharp grey eyes that cut through his walls. Hates the blank expression. Hates how no effort has been put into making himself intimidating, and that Gavin feels small anyway. He feels exposed. He wants to run away.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The android doesn’t bother to wait for a response and leaves before Gavin can do anything. The empty chair is more oppressive than it was before. His chest hurts as it finally sinks in that this is the beginning of the end. He’s been fighting it for so long, trying to carve out his place in the world, but it’s over.

It should be liberating. He’s got enough saved away to be on his own for a while. He could change his life if he wants to. But he doesn’t. Gavin was always supposed to be a detective. Sniffing out killers isn’t just his duty, it’s his purpose. How could an android replace him? How could something that isn’t alive possibly have enough fire to stop a murderer? They’ll never understand. It won’t mean anything anymore. His gun is heavy on his belt. It’s over.

Gavin pays, thanks Jimmy for the fries, goes home. 

He takes a few minutes to clean his apartment but it’s already immaculate. Thinks about cleaning his gun, but there’s no need to rush, so he leaves it on the kitchen counter and rests on the couch instead. 

A soft tapping at his window wakes him up a few hours later and he’s almost disappointed. 

The daredevil cat he’s been feeding every couple of days is waiting, eyes narrowed, on the other side of the glass. The one-eared fucker is fearless, prowling along the balconies of his apartment building several stories above the ground, evading the landlord with ease. Gavin likes to think he’s earned its respect but figures he’s more likely just being played like the schmuck he is.

He opens the window to let the cat in and it jumps on his shoulders like he’s one of its fucking perches. It’s claws dig into his skin through his t-shirt but he doesn’t care. 

A can of tuna later and he’s back on the couch, cat purring loudly against his chest. It had the audacity to clean itself all over him and Gavin can feel drool seeping into his shirt. He falls asleep again, because the warmth and weight is nice, and there’s nothing better for him to do while he’s trapped underneath the furry monster.

It’s dark out when he hears the jingle of keys outside his door. Blood pumping, Gavin jumps up as quietly as he can to grab his gun from the kitchen counter. He’s about to turn the corner and mow down whatever dumb fuck was stupid enough to come into his house when Tina’s voice calls out, “Room service!”

“Christ, you’re a fucking menace,” he puts his gun down on the wardrobe closet. He can smell Thai and his stomach reminds him that he’s only had a plate and a half of fries all day. “I was gonna shoot you.”

The cat skirts past his legs to Tina, smelling the takeaway bag curiously as she takes off her coat. Traitor.

“Sorry Gav, I should’ve called ahead but I figured you’d shoot my offer down. It was a risk I was willing to take,” she smiles, kneeling down to scratch beneath the cat’s chin. “I didn’t know you got a cat! What’s his name?”

He grimaces. “Not mine, just some stray that keeps overstaying its welcome. Can we just eat? I’m starving.”

Tina grins, the exhaustion after a long day of on the street melting from her face as she gets to work setting the table. She knows where everything is so he lets himself sit down and watch her scurry throughout the kitchen.

She’s humming the tune from Friends, shifting her weight from one foot to another as she sways to her own beat. It makes him happy to see her happy, and a part of him wants to hug her from behind and kiss her cheek like he used to, but that was a phantom desire from a long time ago. He just wants to touch and be touched in a way that doesn’t make him feel sick to his stomach.

He looks down at his hands and remembers them clenched in fists, trying to pummel Connor, to knock himself out. Remembers them scrambling for a pulse on the thug he’d just shot, not sure if he should wash his hands afterwards. Blood, dirt, sweat. 

“Gavin?” Tina’s voice is quiet and he realizes he’s shaking. “I’m sorry for not helping you home last night.” Her hand snakes up from his fist to his shoulder and it’s like a dam breaks inside his chest. He hates this. He hates her. He hates himself. 

Gavin shakes her hand off and stands up abruptly enough to startle her. 

“Get the fuck out of my apartment.”

“Gav-“

“Get the FUCK OUT!”

He’s looming over her but her watery eyes make him feel small. He shoves her hard for good measure when she hesitates. “LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Tina’s staring at him, shocked, but not surprised. She knows him well but not well enough to ditch him like the trash he is. His hands are burning so he clenches them hard enough to draw blood. There’s a ringing in his head and he thinks he’s gonna pass out. She rushes past him, grabs her things, and doesn’t say goodbye as she closes the door behind her.

He can’t bear to watch her leave so he punches his wall instead. It’s not enough so he does it again and again until his knuckles are bloody and his wall is more absence than substance. He swipes all the plates off the half-set table and revels in the shattering that follows. He thinks he might have hit the cat because it hisses and darts behind the couch. 

It’s not enough. He’s not enough. Gavin goes to his bedroom and dumps all his clothes out of his drawers. He goes through them one by one, ripping up the fabric into thin sheets. It feels good until he finds an old pocket knife hidden in a pair of cargo pants. He’d used it for protection but most of the blood it’d seen was his own. The reminder makes his legs ache. His blurry reflection in the blade is like the RK’s from the bar, sans LED. 

He snaps the pocket knife closed, opens his window, and chucks it as hard as he can into the night. A few seconds later and he hears it clatter on a nearby rooftop, but it’s out of sight. Good fucking riddance.

No, fuck, he regrets it. His skin itches now. He should’ve kept it. But at least he’s yearning for something he has a name for. He barrels through the rest of the clothes to see if he’d hidden any more pocket knives but comes up empty. 

The plates are still on the kitchen floor. His heart is still threatening to break his ribs but somehow hammers away even harder as he picks up a shard. Redecorating is one thing. He hasn’t bled by his own hand in years. Chasing killers and icers had been punishment enough for his body and he had to keep up his physical performance if he wanted to stay at the DPD. 

But it’s over anyway. He might die tonight. Nobody wants his frail human body. Nobody cares if his head hurts or his muscles ache or his stomach growls. If his skin’s split. If his head is blown open.

A shiver goes down his spine at the thought. Is he excited or scared? He jabs the shard as deep in his leg as he can and gasps at the pain. The hand that gripped the shard is dripping with blood. His vision goes blurry and he remembers his gun in a brilliant moment of clarity. He shuffles to his front door, gritting his teeth against the shocks of pain every time he moves his leg. 

The wardrobe closet has no gun. He yanks it open even though he clearly remembers setting it on its outside shelf. He looks through each coat as shock begins to set in. She took his gun. She took his gun. 

Did she know? If she knew, why would she leave him alone? They’re friends. They’re supposed to be friends. He doesn’t want Tina here. She should be here. She left because he threatened her. She took his gun. She’s the only friend he has. Does she hate him or love him? He should be dead. He’s going to die. 

He’s banging his head as hard as he can against the wardrobe. He’s gonna spill his brains one way or another but the longer he goes the dimmer the world gets. 

The edge of the shelf is slick with his blood when a hand places itself between him and the wood. It’s cool and he can hear a murmur by his ear but it’s so far away he can’t tell who it is. He tries to stumble away but his leg hurts and he almost falls to the ground. His eyes feel like they’re dripping liquid fire and he can’t breathe through the sobs. Death is better than whatever it is ripping through his chest. Kill me already. I’ve got nothing left to give.

Another hand, bigger, grips his shoulder when he begins to sway. He thinks that the voices are getting louder, but the glass walls surrounding him grow thicker until it’s just silence and darkness and he falls away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cat was startled, not hurt. Please talk to someone before it gets to this point. I love you all. Stay safe.


	3. Chapter 3

The day was long but the night is longer.

Connor is looking forward to getting his thoughts in order when he gets home from meeting Markus. They had found a completed RK900 unit at Cyberlife’s R&D and Markus had contacted him so Connor could be there for its activation.

The experience was surreal. He watched as a version of himself, of his replacement, went through the initial booting process and preliminary diagnostics. He’d seen the procedure many times, but this felt… wrong.

Markus welcomed the RK900 with a smile and an outstretched hand, which his counterpart took to establish a brief link. All information, no deviation. Markus thought it was best for newly activated androids to explore their joie de vivre themselves, knowing they had the freedom to do so.

Connor thinks he might be bitter. He is deviant and makes decisions for himself, but there is a wide gulf between him and most of his kind. He had been built to hunt other deviants. He had almost ended the revolution with a single bullet. He is torn between his shame and his loss of purpose.

He left after briefly speaking with the RK900. His counterpart had been polite and even smiled, but Connor has that same smile in his expressions bank. The picture Connor keeps in his jacket pocket, with him and Hank and Sumo, helps to remind him of his real, genuine grin. One without thought or ulterior motive, just simple happiness.

It was a miracle he’d turned out as he did. He’s not sure how RK900 will develop, but he’s certain it will be better than himself. But better at what? Everything? The notes on the RK900 had been fragmented and sabotaged after Cyberlife’s fall. Connor just has to wait and see.

Hank is awake when he gets home despite the fact he had been dead to the world only an hour earlier. Connor double-checks his internal clock to be certain it’s correct, as well as his internal memory. His deviation is coloring his experiences in ways he hadn’t anticipated. Memories seem to be overwritten with junk code and are tinted with emotion. They change all the time and it leaves him unsure of his true feelings. He wants to ask Hank about it but he’s afraid he might be the only one. He’s afraid that he’s not the only one. Connor doesn’t ask.

Hank takes a sip from his orange juice as they analyze each other.

“Where’d you go?”

“I had business to discuss with Markus. I’m sorry for not leaving a note, I assumed you’d still be asleep.”

It is a half-truth and he thinks Hank can tell Connor is not being forthright with him. He doesn’t know if he loves Hank, but he thinks he does, because Connor will do anything to keep him safe and happy. He has been alive only a few short months but there is a pattern in his behavior that cannot be explained without love. Like dark matter, he cannot observe it directly, he can only conclude its existence from its effect on everything else.

His programming scolds him for lying to a human. He is angry at himself for not being honest with the person he trusts most in the world. And yet...

“Alright then.” Hank downs the rest of his orange juice and stands to rinse the glass. Apart from the sound of running water and distant plumbing, there is silence. Though Hank’s back is turned, Connor knows the man is giving him a chance to elaborate. He has utilized the same technique while interrogating suspects: give them a moment of fabricated privacy so they can begin to doubt, to worry, to reconsider. Connor wonders if Hank did this with Cole.

Hank responds well to honesty. Connor wishes he loved Hank enough to tell him the truth. He tells himself it’s because of what happened at Cyberlife tower with the mind games and Hank being manipulated by another Connor. It’s for Hank’s own sake.

No. There is a primal fear, if one can call it that, in his programming. RK900 was created to replace him. Connor is just a prototype. The RK had expressed interest in working at the DPD but was still thinking it over. There’s no reason to believe that he will be discarded if RK is hired. He is a living being with unalienable rights. They cannot terminate him without acceptable cause.

“Good night, Hank.”

“Night, Connor.”

Being obsolete seems like an acceptable enough cause.

Connor goes through his nightly routine on autopilot, trying to separate his thoughts from his feelings. He is on shaky ground with both. Maybe there is a bug somewhere in his system. Maybe it’s just him.

Sumo’s tail thumps against the carpet, his tongue poking out his mouth. The dog usually falls asleep during his grooming session. Tonight, Connor decides to use his hands instead of the brush. He drags his fingers through the St. Bernard’s soft coat, catching any debris and combing out shed fur. It’s soothing and Sumo’s eyes start to drift closed as his breathing slowly evens out.

He monitors the police scanner in these quiet hours. Doing so isn’t necessary as there are many qualified officers patrolling the streets but Connor wants to feel useful. Most nights the calls are too far away for him to get there in time and he doesn’t bother leaving. The background chatter is broken only by Sumo’s loud snoring and the soft hum of his thirium regulator. It is as close to peaceful as Connor thinks he’s going to get.

Almost two hours later, he’s drawn out of his thoughts by a familiar badge number on the scanner. He leans over Sumo to give the sleepy dog a kiss goodbye and leaves for the second time that night.

The alley has been cordoned off already by the time Connor’s automatic taxi pulls up across the street. One of the officers stops him when he tries to enter the scene so he flashes his badge.

“Homicide?” the woman eyes his LED. “Do you think you could get the good detective to relinquish his weapon? We thought about drawing straws this time but if he works with you…”

“Of course,” Connor replies, eyeing the woman back. Her words seem callous but her eyes are tired and she lets him through without another word.

Reed is towards the back of the alley, as far away from the body as possible. The light from his cigarette is a beacon in the dark as Connor winds his way through forensics and an ME. He glances at the body with its dark hair and halo of blood as he passes by. One shot, one kill. It is as efficient and accurate as Connor has learned to expect from Reed.

The man in question doesn’t react when Connor calls his name, instead taking a long drag from his cigarette. The gun is strapped to his side.

Connor considers his options carefully. Reed has been violent with him in the past, but the man before him has glassy eyes and his hand is shaking. Delicate, maybe, but not dangerous. Probably.

“Gavin.”

The human’s eyes flicker to meet Connor’s.

“Forensics need your service weapon for evidence.”

Reed lowers his cigarette with a long exhale, the smoke swirling in the empty space between the two. “Yeah, I know.” He makes no move to unholster his gun until Connor reaches out with his hand palm up. There is a long delay between thought and action. Connor wonders if the human brain can suffer lag from too many concurring processes or if Reed is simply being cautious.

“Why did you refuse to hand over your gun?” Connor asks. “Before, I mean.”

Reed is more interested in his cigarette. Connor changes approach.

“What is it like to smoke?”

Reed takes the time to look at Connor, his frown deepening. Success?

“The human body is fascinating in its complexity. I understand the biological processes well but I will never experience them myself.” Connor looks down at his hands, running an index finger down his palm. “Further complicating matters is the fact that, much like emotions, every human has their own unique perspective or experience with these processes. One person’s description will almost always differ from another’s.”

“Get to the point.”

Connor puts his hands back in his jacket pockets. “The negatives of smoking far outweigh the positives, so why do you smoke?”

“Why does Anderson drink?”

That’s… a sore spot. Connor has spent the last few months helping Hank wean himself off alcohol but the process is long and messy. It’s not always successful. Those nights are the hardest. Just a few days ago he’d been roused from his weekly charge by a weak, desperate voice calling his name. He had found Hank hunched over the toilet, struggling to breathe between each retch, each sob, each choked apology. Connor thinks he can smell the acrid stench of vomit hanging in the air, piercing through his memories and into the present.

The setbacks are dizzying. He can’t help but wonder what he’d missed and his processors dissect the same scenes over and over again for an answer that’ll never reveal itself, that isn’t even there in the first place. Rationally Connor knows it’s important to self-reflect as there’s always something he can improve upon, but his chest tightens and it never ends and soon nothing he can do is enough, he is not enough and never will be, so what’s the point?

“That’s not an answer.” He doesn’t mean to antagonize the detective but Connor can see the warning yellow of his LED reflected in the other’s eyes, off the gently coiling smoke in the air. He wishes humans weren’t so messy. They never say what they mean and they never do as they say. Can’t they ever give him a straight answer? He’s tired of the shades of grey, the ambiguity, even though he knows that he himself lives squarely in between hero and hunter.

“Whatever, plastic,” Reed grinds out, the words as bitter as the look on his face as he throws the butt of his cigarette on the ground to crush underneath his heel. “Get outta my way. I’m goin’ home.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?”

Reed flips him the bird as he passes, leaving Connor in the alley with the body and the other officers without looking back. If Reed has any saving grace, it is that he can be very clear when he wants to be.

Connor considers following him anyway to make sure he’s okay, but Reed is difficult and he already has a human to worry about at home. He’ll check in with Reed tomorrow morning when the detective comes into work.

There’s nothing more to do here, so Connor turns in Reed’s weapon and goes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's important for us to realize that we all consider ourselves the main character in the story of our lives. Connecting with people and REALLY seeing them can be so fucking hard, not necessarily because they hide from us, but because we can't see past ourselves. We all have rich inner lives and the process of accepting this can make us feel both alone and not alone. If you are the only one, you are isolated. If you are just one of many, you are pointless. It's rough going but coming out the other side with a sense that you belong is worth it, I promise.
> 
> Sorry Connor, people are messy, and that includes you. Nothing is black and white. I think most people live with their backs against the wall. That's not necessarily bad. It's just the way it is sometimes. 
> 
> I wish everyone the best.


End file.
